


Touch But No Desire

by Lady_Katana4544, RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual d'Artagnan, Asexuality, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Katana4544/pseuds/Lady_Katana4544, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan has always known that he doesn't want girls like other boys do. He doesn't want boys either, for that matter. It's only when d'Artagnan comes to Paris that he understands that asexuality doesn't mean he has to live without love. </p><p>Ace!d'Art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch But No Desire

D’Artagnan has a crush on his father’s farmhand when he’s eight. He follows the man, who has sun-roughened skin and deep crow’s feet about his eyes, around the farm to watch him throw bales and listen to the stories he tells young d’Artagnan. He is transfixed by the man’s easy way of inviting d’Artagnan to sit and talk, even though he’s only a child.

D’Artagnan’s father laughs and calls the crush harmless.

“It’ll be different when you grow up,” he tells d’Artagnan. “Soon you’ll be following pretty girls around instead, eh?”

The other farmhands laugh. D’Artagnan feels like he’s missed a joke and he ducks his head, hoping no one notices his confusion.

As he and his friends get older, he starts to take note when they start sneaking off together. The giggles from one of the girls -- Helene -- and the lingering glances are the first signs. The second is when they leave the company of the group.

He is curious about what they might be doing and wants to follow, but one of the older boys shakes his head at him so he stays put.

Later he’s told he shouldn’t join them the next day. That he and Helene need to be alone while they are picking berries together.

“I want to get Helene alone. Just for the day. You can join us another time.”

He’s not dumb enough to open his mouth and start asking questions.

He likes his friends, he really does, but he can’t help the feeling of resentment that grows.

He’s fourteen when he gets a crush on one of the girls around the village. His feelings around her are different than what the other boys brag about.

What they do with girls, is not something he wants to do with her.

He doesn’t want to do any of those... activities.

The moment his father finds out, he’s quick to warn against him drawing unwanted attention for spending time alone with an unmarried girl.

He tries to tell his father that he just wants to be alone with her. To be in her company as much as she will allow. To listen quietly to any stories she may want to share. To have a warm, comfortable presence at his side like his father once had with his mother.

When his father starts to tell him about laying with girls and how to treat them properly, he has to fight to keep himself from fleeing the room completely. He knows this well enough and knows he doesn’t want to know it as his father continues to speak.

D’Artagnan comes to the most reasonable conclusion: he must like boys. There’s no other explanation for the lack of “feeling” he should be having when he looks at girls.

No one pays much attention to men who like other men, way out here in the country, and it’s easy enough for d’Artagnan to cozy up to a boy at one of the neighborhood parties and slip away with him.

They end up pressed against a tree out beyond the firelight, under the stars. Jerome is kissing d’Artagnan, their lips sliding and sucking. D’Artagnan’s a fast learner and a good mimic; he closes his eyes and moves his lips the same way Jerome does.

After a few minutes he peeks at Jerome. The other boy looks blissful. His breath is coming fast. D’Artagnan’s heartbeat picks up; not in excitement, but with nerves. D’Artagnan moves his lips uselessly, the action already rubbery and uninteresting, and wonders what this is doing to Jerome, and what else Jerome likes that d’Artagnan finds boring.

Jerome tilts his head and presses closer. He slides his hands down d’Artagnan’s body, touching him at his bicep and down his stomach, obviously taking pleasure in d’Artagnan’s body.

And it is -- taking.

For the first time in his life, d’Artagnan feels as though he doesn’t have control of his body. Jerome is taking something that has, until now, only ever been d’Artagnan’s. Jerome runs his hand over d’Artagnan’s unprotected stomach, and d’Artagnan feels vulnerable and ill; there’s a trembling inside his head.

D’Artagnan pushes Jerome’s hands away. He doesn’t like men. He doesn’t anything, apparently.

As he nears twenty, D’Artagnan’s days are filled with manual labor, hefting bushels and riding out to villagers who pay for his father’s crops. His father is teaching him swordsmanship as well, and d’Artagnan finds comfort in his newfound strength and balance. D’Artagnan’s body is filling out, his muscles growing and his shoulders broadening, and it feels all the better for being his own, not pawed over.

Madame Vernet thanks him as he unloads her order of beets. “Your father is so lucky to have you helping on the farm,” she says, making a pass at his cheek, though he dodges the pinch. “I’m sure he’ll be sad to see you go.”

“Go?” he asks, startled.

“Well, a handsome young thing like yourself, you’ll be wanting to start your own family soon!”

He smiles tightly, aware of the low-level panic fluttering under his skin. “I don’t think I’ll be leaving very soon. Father needs my help.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have your eye on a pretty girl. Don’t keep her waiting!” She totters away with her beets. D’Artagnan sighs.

He’s twenty-one when he gets a crush on a woman again.

Constance is warm and sweet. Also clever, fiercely defensive of her friends, and loyal to what she believes in. What’s more important, as he discovers, is that she’s safe to be with.

He feels safe that he can watch her work in the kitchen while he sits at the table and not feel like he has to follow up with something to follow his glances as he sits at the table watching her. They can walk together to the market, share the latest gossip of the city and neighbors together as much as they can within their expected positions.

There’s no need to touch her like his boyhood friends once touched their sweethearts. There’s no need to have sex with her.

She might be the best friend he’s ever had.

It doesn’t take him very long to figure that Aramis, Porthos, and Athos have their own personal arrangement. After all, the casual touches and lingering glances between the three aren’t hard to spot. He’s not blind; he’s only disinterested in sex.

In his heart, he is unsure about invading their dynamic.

They don’t treat him exactly the same -- though he could do without the ass grabbing by Aramis -- but they do show their affection for them. Teasing him gently about being the youngest in the group. But they also teach him tricks to fighting and take the time to learn his favorite meal so that together they can visit the pubs that serve it.

Gradually he relaxes into his position beside their trio as the friendship deepens. Observing them, he learns how each of them work: he pushes food toward Athos when the man has only drunk wine all day; he helps Porthos cheat at card games and spirits him away from angry pub owners, roaring with laughter. He welcomes the casual touches from Porthos and leans into the hair-ruffling from Aramis.

They become so physically affectionate with him as time passes that he can hardly feel left out. There are nights that he pretends he needs to sleep so that the three can find a room for their own, looking away when Aramis leans over to kiss Athos on the cheek lightly. Otherwise it might be like he was actually one of them.

Then one night, when they are on a mission to retrieve important papers, Aramis leans close to him and kisses him.

It doesn’t surprise him.

Nor is it completely out of nowhere.

He’s become so used to their touches, their presence when any of them sit close enough to the touch. Closeness was something that came with their work. A way of life when they were on missions.

He’s known this and has come to welcome their closeness.

Tonight Aramis is the one sitting closest to him laughing gently while Porthos shares some story while tending to the fire. Aramis is close enough that he only has to turn his head to bring his face close to d’Artagnan’s -- so close their breaths mingle.

For a heartbeat d’Artagnan looks back at him, undecided. He wants to be near Aramis, to see what the others share with him, but he doesn’t want the -- the stifling sexuality that comes after.

He parts his lips. Aramis kisses him.

Kissing Aramis isn’t quite like kissing Jerome. The differences between them are obvious: Aramis is older and more experienced, and he kisses d’Artagnan gently and not like he just wants to get off. D’Artagnan likes the feel of Aramis’ stubble against his own lips, and the way Aramis sways closer to d’Artagnan, tugging him into an embrace.

Then Aramis’ hands dip down over his ass, and d’Artagnan startles out of the kiss. He scrambles to his feet.

Aramis blinks twice in confusion as he watches d’Artagnan step back, away from him. He becomes abruptly aware of the others watching them from their seated positions around the fire pit.

“D’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head once at the quiet question in Athos’ voice, mutters something soft about going to tend the horses, and leaves before any of them can think to stop him. Aramis looks at Porthos and Athos, and the surprise is loud in his voice when he speaks.

“What was that about?”

Athos shrugs, his eyes fixed on d’Artagnan as the young man finishes tending to the horses. As though he’s trying to see into the boy’s head. “I haven’t the slightest clue.”

“Do you think he’s not interested in any of us?” They look to Porthos, whose face is a miserable facade of bravado covering his hurt. Porthos was the most eager of the three to draw d’Artagnan into their fold. Athos takes his hand gently into his own, squeezing it gently.

“No, I think he is. But we may need to talk to him and see where we went wrong.”

Porthos looks up hopefully. “What do you mean, Aramis?”

“He’s clearly interested in us; you know that.” Porthos and Aramis nodded. It had taken weeks of tentative touches and casual hint-dropping to ensure that d’Artagnan would not find their threesome repulsive, and even longer to guess whether he might agree to join if they asked him. “So there must be some hidden boundary to our young friend. Something about our approach must have pushed him away.”

Athos turns his head to find d’Artagnan once more, and Porthos and Aramis follow his gaze. D’Artagnan has finished with the horses and sits atop a boulder next to their tethers. He doesn’t seem to show any inclination to return to camp.

For a moment Athos says nothing as Aramis and Porthos watch him in turn, waiting quietly for him to say something -- wondering if perhaps he might be thinking to call d’Artagnan back to them and tell him to explain plainly what he might be thinking of them.

He turns back to them with a small frown settling into his expression, his eyes like steel and his resolution just as firm.

“Tomorrow we will speak with him. There will be no pushing d’Artagnan tonight.”

Seeing d’Artagnan’s unwillingness to leave the horses, Aramis calls to him to take first watch, and unpacks their bedrolls. Although they are evenly spaced, d’Artagnan’s absence from his prepared pile of blankets makes his bedroll seem farther away. Aramis wonders for the first time if d’Artagnan has felt excluded when he has woken to see the other three having snuggled closer together in the course of the night.

D’Artagnan’s perch is only just a few yards away, but his position, facing away from the camp, seems like a declaration.

Aramis makes a motion for them to join him and they do -- though reluctantly on Athos’ part, who loses sight of d’Artagnan to the complete darkness of night.

The lie in their beds quietly, without the usual chatter or touching. Usually Porthos’ hand would find its way to Athos’ leg, and Aramis would shift closer and closer until he was nearly on top of Porthos, and Athos would grumble but eventually give in and let Aramis pull him over and worm a hand into his breeches -- but not tonight.

Tonight they may have lost the confidence of d’Artagnan. And they do not know why they may have lost what is rapidly becoming one of the most important things in their lives.

As they sleep and shift in their bedrolls, they are unaware of the glances that d’Artagnan sends in their direction through the evening until he silently trades watch with Porthos.

The next morning he gets a similar treatment with the others exchanging a silent conversation in a flurry of shared glances and quieter exchanges while he gets the horses ready to move. As they prepare to leave, Aramis finally approaches him.

“Look, lad. I am sure you know some folks have ideas about men laying together, but -”

D’Artagnan cuts him by shaking his head quickly.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” Athos asks as he and Porthos join them.

Nervously d’Artagnan looks away from them, nibbling a bit at his bottom lip. “I don’t… do that.”

Surprised, Aramis and Athos exchange a look, before Aramis looks back at him.

“With anyone?”

Without hesitation, d’Artagnan nods. Before they speak, Porthos speaks up, his voice low with anger.

“Did someone hurt you?”

D’Artagnan’s head jerks up quickly, his surprise clear on his young face.

“No! Nothing like that. I just…” He shrugs. “I just don’t enjoy sex.”

They all pause and somewhere above them a bird trills.

Aramis feels the inclination to ask a question. “Are you sure that you’ve... done it right?”

D’Artagnan bristles visibly at the question. “I may be young, but I do know my mind. Is that so hard for you to understand?”

As Aramis opens his mouth to speak, Porthos takes his chance and steps in quickly to soothe them. Better to put an end to a conversation that has the potential to make matters worse between them.

“Alright, alright. We believe you.” He jingles his horse’s reins pointedly.

The four of them mount up, though there is a lingering awkwardness that settles between them. Aramis sneaks glances at d’Artagnan, who scowls in return when he catches him doing it. Porthos says nothing, but shakes his head at Aramis while Athos stares at the road of them, lost in his thoughts.

It is around the midday hour when Athos finally brings his horse up alongside d’Artagnan’s mount, feeling gratified when d’Artagnan looks at him.

“I do apologize for any discomfort we may have caused you.”

D’Artagnan shrugs slightly as he gently nudges his horse away from the edge of the road before answering with a small half smile.

“‘S alright, I’m kind of honored really. I know Aramis was only trying to include me. It was -” He looks down and fiddles with his glove. “It was nice.”

Athos gives him a silent considering look before sharing his thoughts, aware that Aramis and Porthos are listening as well.

“When they first asked me, I was hesitant,” He admits quietly. “I had been hurt long before meeting them. You need not worry about being vulnerable to us.”

He means to say more, but d’Artagnan releases a cry of exasperation that only slightly startles his horse.

“I am not repressed. I haven’t been hurt,” d’Artagnan says. “To put it simply, I do not like sex. It is repulsive to me.”

The awkward silence settles among them.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Aramis in dread.

“So when - when we were touching you,” said Porthos, “it made you sick?”

Exasperated, d’Artagnan sighs and remembers their gifts of fond touches they’d bestowed upon him recently. The familiar head pats, the hair ruffling; one of them putting a hand at his elbow when he would rise from a table.

“That’s not sex.”

They seem to lose some of their tenseness at his words as Aramis laughs gently. “For us three, it is what leads up to it.”

Yes, that is something else he remembers quite well. He has seen the touching between the three of them that leads to them seeking another room far from his. Or going to Aramis’ apartment when they are at the garrison.

“Well, it is different for me.”

They wait patiently as he seems to struggle with putting something into words. Fond memories of following his father’s farmhand around and laughing with his childhood girlfriend come to the forefront of his memories.

“It’s - it’s not a lead up to sex. To me it’s just touching. It’s the feeling of being important to somebody who wants only be close enough to me that they share my space.”

He looks at them then, feeling frustration at his poor wording at Porthos and Athos look blank while taking in his explanation. Then there’s Aramis, who has the dawning expression of one who’s beginning to understand a puzzle.

“Do correct me if I’m wrong. So when you lean into us and our touching, you like the physical, but not the sexual?”

“Yes. Right,” d'Artagnan responds with relief.

“What about the romance? I know you have your eye on that pretty landlady of yours,” Aramis adds teasingly.

D’Artagnan flushes. “Its nothing like that,” he says quickly. “I lov-- I like her. Its just, I don’t want to. You know.”

“Slip her a night physic? Make the beast with two backs?”

He cuts in loudly before Aramis can hopefully go any further.

“Give her any wrong ideas.”

“Sensible. And kissing? Does that repulse you as well?”

The feel of Aramis’ beard scraping d’Artagnan’s face suddenly comes back to him. He blushes. “Not so much with you,” he mutters. “With other people, yes.”

Aramis brings his horse aside d’Artagnan’s, so close that d’Artagnan can see the hesitation in Aramis’ eyes. “So if I touched you… here?” He lays a hand, no less gentle for all its calluses and scars, on d’Artagnan’s wrist. Like d’Artagnan is a spooked creature.

D’Artagnan blinks at him. “That would be alright.”

“And if Athos touched you there?”

“And Athos, and even Porthos, yes,” says d’Artagnan, slightly amused.

“And… here?” Aramis moves his hand to d’Artagnan’s cheek. D’Artagnan leans into the touch and nods.

Aramis’ horse snorts and shakes its mane out, so Aramis draws him up to a standstill. D’Artagnan stops too, and Athos and Porthos as well, so they’re all suspended in a tableau. Athos and Porthos watch Aramis’ hand on d’Artagnan like they can also feel d’Artagnan’s smooth cheek and his sun-warmed skin under their fingers.

“If we touched you like this after training, as we’ve touched you before?” Aramis’ tone is low, but it’s not a practiced seduction. He’s earnest. D’Artagnan realizes with a start that Aramis is asking d’Artagnan about his boundaries. Jerome never did that; he only took his own pleasure.

The idea of Aramis and Porthos and Athos touching him like they had before Aramis had kissed him, and all for _d’Artagnan’s_ pleasure and not their own ends, takes his breath away.

“I would welcome it,” he responds, his own voice low. Aramis grins brilliantly and leans in to kiss him -- not on the lips, but on the cheek. He makes sure his stubble rasps against d’Artagnan’s face, the devil.

D’Artagnan looks past him to Athos and Porthos and finds them watching him. He swallows. “I would welcome all your affections,” he tells them.

It feels momentous, promising himself to other people. But he knows with a firm certainty that these men, his brothers in arms and in hearts, would never betray his trust or ask him for more than he would willingly give.

Porthos’ face lights up, and Athos tips his hat in a way that d’Artagnan knows hides his smile. They both angle their horses closer to him so that when they start riding again, their knees brush d’Artagnan’s. Aramis falls back, protecting the rear of their formation, so d’Artagnan is set at the heart, surrounded at all sides. For the first time since meeting the Musketeers, he feels as though he truly belongs.

After that morning, it’s like a tight band of worry has been loosened from around d’Artagnan’s chest. He no longer has to fear that his friends will try to initiate sex when they draw him into one-armed hugs or press a kiss to d’Artagnan’s wrist.

The other Musketeers are, if anything, even more eager to show affection now that they understand d’Artagnan’s boundaries. D’Artagnan will snuggle up to Porthos while they’re all eating together and Porthos will drop an arm easily over d’Artagnan’s shoulders. They stay like that comfortably until it’s time to go.

Athos will ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair when he executes a fencing move perfectly, and let his hand drop to the back of d’Artagnan’s neck; a firm, grounding pressure. D’Artagnan will lean into the touch and won’t mind when Athos does the same thing to Aramis half an hour later but this time kisses Aramis. It’s not being excluded; it’s simply needing different things from the same relationship.

Aramis is usually the one who will lead d’Artagnan to the group -- a hand to his elbow gently steering him to their corner of the pub; an inviting jerk of his head toward the room that they’ve rented out for the night. Aramis is d’Artagnan’s measure for each night: he tells d’Artagnan whether they’re in the mood for sex, and asks d’Artagnan if he wants to stay until they start, or leave now.

Depending on his mood, d’Artagnan might stay until soft, unthreatening caresses turn to sexually charged groping. Some nights he finds his comfort elsewhere: in a noisy pub, or on a quiet bench outside their hotel where he can remember his home and feel comfortably alone, without being touched or needing touch.

On those nights he might be the only one of their foursome who isn’t entwined around the others, but he doesn’t feel like an outsider at all.

There is one area in which he still feels wary, though -- and like most confusion in his life, it has to do with Constance.

He wants to be with her, like he had wanted to be with the girl from his town when he was only fourteen. He wants to sit with her in her sunlit kitchen and hear her ideas on business and politics and fabrics and the girl down the street’s marriage. He wants to make her smile like Bonacieux never does.

He wants more than just friendship with her, but an affair -- it sounds so sordid, but his love for Constance overpowers any thought of wrongdoing -- usually includes sex. D’Artagnan desires an affair of the heart.

Things come to a head on that day after their business with Ninon is done and d’Artagnan tells her that he loves her. It slips out before he can censor it, because it’s been flitting around his mind for weeks.

Constance stares at him, and d’Artagnan stares back, and he’s sure their heartbeats are beating in sync, faster than wild horses. Then Constance surges forward and she’s kissing him. D’Artagnan kisses back, enjoying the sweet softness of her lips and the weight of her in his arms.

Then d’Artagnan breaks away and leans away a little. “Constance, wait.”

Constance looks crestfallen. “What is it?”

“It’s -- I have to tell you something. I don’t…” He’s already explained this before, to three people at once, and Constance is only one person; this should be easier. But Constance’s opinion means the world to him, and if she were suddenly to look at him like a freak or --

He steels himself and continues. “I don’t have sex.”

“Because I’m married?”

“No; not at all.”

Constance pauses. She lets go of d’Artagnan and steps back. “But you look at me like… you said you love me.”

“I do,” d’Artagnan assures her. “With all my heart.” He tentatively takes her hand. “I want to be with you. Just not like that.”

“So it’s not me?” Constance asks slowly. “You don’t find me,” she shudders and looks away, “dull?”

D’Artagnan swears painful harm on Bonacieux for ever letting Constance think she was anything less than perfect. “You are a gem among stones,” he says. “Only a blind man would think you dull.”

Constance smiles and flushes and her whole face scrunches up. It’s adorable. D’Artagnan smiles in helpless echo.

“You don’t mind that I won’t have sex with you?” he asks, not without a hint of nerves.

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” Constance beams. “I’ve known that I want to be with you for a long time. I wouldn’t give you up for anything.”

D’Artagnan caresses her waist. “Nor I you.” He hesitates. “And… there’s something else.”

“Is it the kissing?” Constance asks. “We don’t have to do that either.”

“I like kissing you,” says d’Artagnan. It’s true. He likes the closeness of it, the feeling of their breaths mingling, the knowing that Constance is concentrating solely on him. “But it it doesn’t do anything for me sexually, and it gets redundant after a while.”

Constance nods seriously, with the face of someone taking notes. “Is that how you figured it out, that you don’t like, um, you know?”

“That has something to do with the other thing,” says d’Artagnan nervously. “I, well, Aramis and Athos and Porthos… know. About me. And…”

Constance sees what he was going to say in his expression. “You aren’t!” she gasps. “With all three?”

“It’s not like that,” he hastens to say. “They know I don’t like sex, and they respect that.”

“But they are…?” Constance leaves the sordid question hanging.

“Yes, and quite often too.”

“I always knew it,” Constance says smugly. “So you, you do this,” she squeezes d’Artagnan briefly to highlight their position, “with them?”

She runs her hands up d’Artagnan’s arms absently. It feels like Porthos’ gentle weight by his side and Athos’ fond caresses, but better because it’s Constance who lights up his world and now she understands him and respects his boundaries. D’Artagnan tries to focus on her question around the heady glow of love and joy that fogs his vision.

He shakes his head. “They’re…” he searches for words, and finds that he’s becoming much better at identifying his feelings. “They’re my brothers. They look out for me, and when they touch me it’s… protective. With you, it’s, well, romantic.” He ducks his head a little.

Constance cups his cheek in her small hand. “I understand loving people you’re not supposed to,” she says softly. “If that what makes you happy, d’Artagnan, I understand.”

D’Artagnan, in the warm light streaming through the window and turning their love to golden hues, can see a future full of this: Constance in his arms and his friends at his side, all showing their love for d’Artagnan in their own ways as he returns their love to them tenfold.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a lovely [poem](http://hellopoetry.com/Alexandra-Burwood/poems/popular/) by Alexandra Burwood over at hellopoetry.com, titled "Non-Consummation": 
> 
> We are all touch but no desire  
> For in each other's arms  
> We are blissful  
> With no wish, no requirement  
> To take it further.  
> We make love without making love  
> My base lusts sated  
> In the caress of your long limbs  
> Your hair soft in my fingers  
> Lips brushing cheeks and hands  
> And we entwine in each other  
> At home in the scent of warm skin.  
> A deeper love than I ever knew  
> We are inside of each other  
> Without secrets or falsehoods  
> Our souls naked  
> To our perceptive eyes.  
> We are utterly beautiful  
> In our private universe  
> Born of night and long drives  
> And words.


End file.
